1

  The two entered the waiting car in the garage without saying a word. Daros waited for Greta to settle in and close the door before advising:

  "Turn your face away at reception. It's better if the employee doesn't see your face. You know, in case someone shows up asking questions."

  She agreed with a brief nod.

  At the exit, Greta observed how Daros acted at the window. His behavior with the attendant was impeccable. The polite tone, the open smile, the natural confidence of someone who could be a successful executive or a charismatic politician. And he used a credit card, something she didn't imagine doing anytime soon.

  As a teacher, she'd developed an almost instinctive ability to read people. It was a fundamental part of the job. You had to identify insecurities hidden under students' arrogance, perceive potential behind shyness, understand who each one really was behind sculpted masks.

  But that man was far beyond her comprehension. It was as if there was an invisible switch inside him, alternating between raw hostility and attentive cordiality in the blink of an eye. Which of these faces was the real one? Or were both equally real, parts of a whole that fragmented to keep the essence far from the world's eyes?

  And the change happened again. Right in front of her. As soon as the garage's automatic door gave space for the HB20 to pass, a steel curtain clouded Daros's blue eyes. His attention went from one side of the street to the other, with less interest in traffic than in spotting the suspect vehicle. There was the car, on the corner. And on the corner it remained. It wasn't a silver car the unknown observer sought, nor a man or a couple. The target was a woman, the passenger sitting right next to the HB20's driver, hidden by the dark windows.

  Greta tried to imagine who would be behind the Civic's wheel. It must be someone with a cat's patience waiting for prey. A person of planning, yes, but would they be equally prone to action? Would they flee from confrontations? This made her think of her husband. Vanity inflamed him. He was a peacock puffed up by praise. His talent for charming audiences was one of the factors that attracted her to him in the beginning. In the end, it was Valério's same aptitude for conducting the show that drove them apart.

  Many times she wondered if she'd really loved him, or if she just felt attraction to his sophisticated reasoning. She didn't feel like being touched by him even at the beginning of the relationship. At the time, she thought she needed a little more intimacy to really give herself, or to feel desire. Or maybe she needed to learn to love her husband. People around her said love comes with time, and she had very strong reasons to believe that. It's just that... Can someone love what they don't know? Or do we only love the idea we build of someone? She didn't feel deceived by her husband. Actually, she'd deceived herself: she'd blindfolded herself willingly.

  "For real?"

  The stranger's voice beside her interrupted her reasoning. The only word she understood gave the impression he'd read the thoughts she'd just had. Greta stared at him silently, as if not understanding why the two were there.

  "Are you all right?" he investigated.

  "Yes. I was just... What did you say before?"

  "Nothing worth repeating now. It was just an idea for when you're more comfortable. I was thinking here about..."

  Daros even signaled to make a quick stop on the shoulder. He intended to talk about what Greta carried in her purse, if she knew how to use the gun for real. If she didn't, better not even carry the thing. He ended up deciding the shot could backfire. Talking about weapons now could make the passenger less cooperative.

  "Nevermind. We can talk about it later."

  She nodded. She didn't feel very willing to talk.

  2

  Glancing at the passenger, Daros realized she could be anywhere but in the car with him. He decided not to insist on breaking the silence. It would be unproductive. Instructions about the next steps could wait until they reached the apartment.

  Either way, he had his own thoughts. One of them refused to disappear. He thought he should listen to his intuition. He'd learned that intuition is nothing more than the brain calculating the various possible outcomes of a situation and choosing the most promising path, or discarding the riskiest alternative. What he couldn't stop thinking was that Greta had never tried to negotiate her freedom or beg for her own life. Why? That was important. He'd decided to execute his targets quickly precisely because he tired of hearing their bargains. It was monotonous and, most of the time, revolting. When it was time for the criminals themselves to hear their victims begging, Daros doubted they'd listened to the pleas.

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  The afternoon had already advanced when they reached the building. He typed the password into the electronic doorman with agility and guided the HB20 to the garage. He made a point of parking far from the Jeep. The extra care might seem excessive, but experience had taught him there were never too many precautions.

  With a hand, he invited Greta to accompany him into the building.

  In the spacious elevator, the two kept their distance. Daros caught her reflection in the mirror out of the corner of his eye. The woman was studying him, trying to decipher him. He pretended not to notice. It was interesting that she chose that moment to assess the danger he represented. Fortunately, he thought, he was no longer a threat. At least not directly to her.

  He opened the apartment door, giving way for the guest to enter first. He locked the door behind them and hung the key on a hook near the entrance, with the naturalness of someone who lived there.

  "You can sit wherever you want," he said. "We need to talk."

  Her eyes traveled over the cozy furniture: the comfortable sofas, the decorative pillows, the paintings of flowers in warm colors scattered on the walls. Everything there suggested a feminine touch.

  "The place isn't mine," he clarified, cutting off any speculation about his personality based on the decor.

  Greta settled on the larger three-seat sofa, with the tense posture of a student on the first day of class. Legs very close together, hands resting on her lap, full attention on the teacher.

  Daros pulled a chair from the dining table, sitting facing her. Before sharing the plan, he investigated:

  "Who could be after you? Your husband?"

  "No," the answer was quick. "It's not... it’s not typical of him."

  Daros didn't explore that contradiction. Women in abusive relationships usually gave in to the impulse to deny reality. The reason was simple: they tried to diminish the suffering of accepting things as they were this way. Cruel and dangerous as they were. Confronting Greta about denying her husband's nature wouldn't get them anywhere. He preferred to change the angle:

  "Do you have enemies?"

  She reflected for a moment and first shook her head. Then spoke to reinforce:

  "No. None."

  "Have you committed any crime recently?"

  This time, her silent denial took much longer to happen. And they both noticed it. Daros stored the information for later and continued, explaining the plan to her.

  "You're going to drive my Jeep to Imbituba," he began. "Your things are already in the trunk. Not the phone, obviously. It might be being tracked. I don't think so yet, but it might start being tracked."

  He paused, waiting for a sign of understanding before continuing. She nodded slightly.

  "I'm going to Florianópolis in the silver car. It's rented. When the Civic guy finds out you left the motel, he'll check the cameras, unless he's an idiot. And I don't think he is. Around here, it's common to have cameras in shops near the highway. Where you're going that won't be a problem. But here there were too many cameras for me to neutralize and too little time to act. He'll see the HB20's plate."

  Cameras to neutralize? Greta wondered who the man before her was, after all.

  "I need to get rid of the car afterward," the man continued, oblivious to her perplexity. "There's a new phone for you on the Jeep's dashboard. Well, not new, sealed in the box and everything. But it'll work. You can save your destination address in the GPS."

  His voice became more measured and serious when making the next comment.

  "My number is the only saved contact. Don't make other calls. Not even to order food. There's a sandwich in the car for you to manage. I didn't find anything vegetarian, so... Well, just take off the ham."

  A shadow passed over her face. The question escaped before she could contain it:

  "Do you know where the cabin is?"

  He shook his head firmly, without looking away when he replied:

  "No. If you want me to go there, I need the address. Otherwise, I won't try to find out. I can track the Jeep when you think you don't need it anymore. A month from now, two months. You decide. I also didn't write down your number."

  "How would you get there? It'll be dark and the house is in the middle of the woods."

  "I'll go through the woods. I have training for that." He dismissed the doubt on her face with a wave. "I don't want to risk using rideshare apps."

  Squeezing her hands even tighter, she searched his face for a clue she didn't find. Her initial plan was just to run away. Being pursued by a stranger whose intentions were a mystery wasn't a task she'd prepared for. So any help was welcome.

  Still, she needed some certainty, any concrete information. So she put her cards on the table.

  "Why are you doing this? Why are you helping me?"

  It was the first time Daros took a while to respond, as if he'd never considered the question before.

  "I don't know. Not really."

  The answer was short, too quick to be dismissed. After some time, the woman took a paper from her purse and wrote down the address of her destination. She held the paper for another moment, as if still pondering whether she could trust him. Then she extended the sheet firmly. Before handing it over, she negotiated:

  "On one condition. I need to know what you do for a living. You have many... unusual talents."

  A proud smile lit up his face. It was the first time Daros seemed... human. It was enough to disarm her.

  "I thought it was obvious. I'm a software engineer."

  Pretending not to notice the shock on her face, he remembered:

  "An Irish saying goes that it's better to arrive in heaven half an hour before the devil finds out we died."

  He checked his wristwatch and stood up. His gaze was already back to being the same as before: distant, gray.

  "Time to go."